


The Four Years

by egged_man



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Gen, but i might add more depending on what content pops up, no additional tags yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egged_man/pseuds/egged_man
Summary: Owen Carvour should have died, and yet - he didn't. Focused on Owen in, well, the four years between The Russian Affair and the start of Spies Are Forever. Either a story with chapters, a collection of connected shorter stories, or just this one short story if I never end up writing more.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 11





	1. Pain, Rain, and Other Such Things

**Author's Note:**

> some friends of mine have written some pretty good shit with spies are forever characters, so seeing as how im a fan of the musical too, i decided to give it a shot as well lmao

The pain was unbearable - radiating up and down Owen's spine, through his arms and legs, then running all the way back up to repeat the process all over again. On one hand, he was almost thankful for it; as bad as it was, the ability to _feel_ the pain in his extremities meant he hadn't quite lost use of them. On the other, it bloody fucking hurt.

He stared up, at the grey Russian sky, black on the corners of his vision. It would start raining soon, he knew. The clouds above were identical to the ones in Britain, the ones that heralded downpour. Maybe he'd drown, sitting here unable to move. Maybe he'd - 

No.

This pile of rubble wouldn't be where he died. It wasn't yet time for the curtains to drop. He'd only been unconscious for what - a few hours? If he could just turn. His. _Head_ , he could get a visual on his surroundings, make a plan, and get out of here.

Twisting his head to the side and ignoring the pain, the banana entered his field of view. The goddamn banana. Owen knew he'd fell, but upon waking up minutes ago he hadn't been able to remember what had happened, but seeing that peel, discarded and lying a few feet away from him, filled him with a strange sense of anger.

That's right. Curt. Stupid, idiotic Curt. Stupid, idiotic, brave Curt.

The anger was washed away, slowly but surely, by a growing sense of hope. Curt and he - they were in love, weren't they? He wouldn't just leave Owen there, alone and on the edge of consciousness, to die in the rubble of his shortsighted mistake. 

And yet soon minutes turned into an hour, an hour into several. The rain began to pour and the sky darkened, as did Owen's mood. He'd been wrong. It was all wrong. Curt didn't care. Of course he didn't. He'd never faced the consequences of his mistakes. Why would this time be any different? 

But....maybe he'd still return?

Another hour passed. Curt was nowhere to be found. Once again fighting through the pain, Owen dragged himself under a piece of concrete jutting out a few feet above the ground. It hurt when he moved, but some instinct in his brain drove him to seek shelter. The concrete was poor cover, but for protection from the rain, it would have to do. In time, the anger returned, joined by sadness, and then sadness became all he could really muster.

Eventually, knowing that Curt, partner for five years and _partner_ for four, had abandoned him completely, Owen let his tears drive him into sleep.

\- - -

The morning brought no change to the pain. In fact, it woke him up, assisted by the sensation of a gun's barrel being pressed, softly and repeatedly, into his cheek.

Owen cracked his eyes open, and stared up at the gas-masked face of what he took to be a Russian soldier. The man took a closer look at him, then stood, turned, and called out to somebody in Russian.

"This one's still alive!" The man crouched next to him again. "You are lucky to have survived the explosion, comrade. There is only one other survivor."

Owen was very briefly confused by this. The man was treating him as a friend, a fellow communist, and yet....wait. Of course, Owen was still wearing his disguise, the brown coat and gray pants, sans that hat and ridiculous fake mustache. He attempted to speak, his accent training almost subconsciously kicking in. Despite what Curt had said the day before, the accent was near flawless, as was his Russian. 

"Others....alive? Who?"

The soldier paused for a second. "A younger man. His name is Oleg. He is still unconscious. Perhaps you knew him?"

If this phased Owen, he certainly showed no outward sign of it. But in his head, the confirmation of Oleg's survival set off panic alarms. Oleg would almost certainly identify him if the two met. "Oleg....? Spies in....in the compound....Oleg.... _British_ spy....don't....listen to him...." he coughed out. The words were false, of course but the effort it took to say them certainly wasn't.

The soldier seemed taken aback by this. "You are sure?" Owen just nodded, and soldier seemed to grow a little more serious, despite the gas mask obscuring his features. "I see. This is a serious accusation. I will report it to my superior officer." 

"Thank....you....friend." The soldier just nodded back at him, and, wrapping his arms under Owen's upper back and legs, lifted him up. The man was strong. It was a familiar sensation, being carried like this, almost like....no. No more thoughts like that. Curt was gone. Off back to the A.S.S., no doubt, off to another mission without a care in the goddamn world.

As the soldier walked, Owen tried to keep himself still, but it was no use. The sensation of movement made the pain even worse. It came on quicker now, hurt more. Letting his head roll back and his body go limp, Owen surrendered to unconsciousness, in the hopes that maybe he'd wake up attached to a morphine drip. Then the pain in his body would go away.

If only the pain in his heart could go away as easily.


	2. Did The British Hate Communists?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looks like theres another lol
> 
> also 1000 words heyoooo, thats long enough for a fanfic chapter i think

When Owen came to in what he assumed to be a sort of top-secret medical facility, it was about as he'd expected. The pain was immensely numbed, but so too were his thoughts. The morphine formed a sort of mental cloud around them, one he had to push through to form anything coherent. Of course, he thought through the fog, this is exactly what he'd wanted. In this state any words he attempted to speak were liable to become entirely incomprehensible. But, of course, he was one of theirs, or so they thought, so they wouldn't just yank the drip out of his arm and subject him to the immense pain of a broken back just to get some sort of information out of him. 

It was a month before he was able to think clearly again. 

When they determined he was able to do so, he was carefully moved from his bed onto a sort of gurney, which was wheeled from his usual spot in one of the facility's care rooms into one that was smaller, and gave him a mild sense of claustrophobia, as he'd adapted to the bright lights and wide spaces of the former. This new room was darker somehow, despite being lit solely by an intensely bright light built into the ceiling, and smelled vaguely of blood, a scent Owen knew well.

A stern-faced Russian doctor slowly inclined the back of the gurney up, before backing out of the room and leaving Owen with only the officers for company. He was no longer looking at the ceiling. Instead, he saw directly in front of him a smaller man with a mouselike face and dark, almost black eyes, staring down at the table, blinking in discomfort, assumedly from the light. Owen recognized him instantly, and adopted a face of mild disgust.

"So. 'Oleg'. You survived that mess back at the compound, despite my efforts." He spit across the room at the other man for effect. "You are no Russian."

Oleg's eyes widened in anger and looked up to meet his. "You shot me in both legs!" He slammed a hand down onto the arm of the chair - no, _wheelchair_ that he was sitting on and winced in pain. That's right, Owen remembered, his fingers had been broken. Not the smartest, this one.

Owen sat forward suddenly, wincing in pain as well - although his was faked. "I shot you in both legs because you were a traitor. Fuck, man, I trusted you."

"What are you saying?" Oleg looked up to the officers. "Surely you don't believe this - this nonsense. I have been a loyal supporter of the party for years!"

The officers remained silent, impartial, although Owen got the feeling that Oleg was very much shooting himself in the foot. Perhaps repeatedly. Knowing he had the high ground, Owen pressed his advantage. "Really? Your name, the town you grew up in, the day you joined the army. Tell it to me."

"You first!" Oleg snarled back. The man was clearly on edge, somehow *more* on edge than Owen was - and Oleg wasn't even an undercover spy.

Owen reclined in the gurney, and smiled. "Vladimir Nobolochev, from Volgograd. I joined the Red Army June 1st, 1950. It's all in my file." The part about the file was, at least, true. MI6 had spared no expense in forging Owen a detailed backstory and covertly editing Russian census data as part of his year-long infiltration of the facility. Before _Mega_ ruined it all, that is.

Oleg seemed a little stunned by this, opened his mouth to say....something, and then closed it. Evidently, whatever he'd been about to say was now lost on him. Owen narrowed his eyes. "Well, Oleg? Go on. Tell us your history.'

"I can't - I," he was panicking. Good. Although not as fervent in his disdain as an american would be, Owen still greatly disliked Communists. The one in front of him quivered slightly, looked him in the eye. "What did - what did you do? My name is all -" he looked to the assembled guards and officers, "Please, I cannot remember anything!"

The nearest officer tilted his head to the side, his expression obscured by shadows. "I find that hard to believe. You did not realize you couldn't remember anything until just now, when it became relevant."

Oleg's breathing grew rapid, shallow. "It - it was not - I was not _thinking_ about it. Until now." He jabbed a finger at Owen. "Until _he_ brought it up! He did something to me! He is the spy, not me! Not me, damn you, not -"

The officer waved a hand. "I have heard enough. Take him away. We will find his secrets sooner or later."

Owen watched as the man was dragged from the room, fear flashing across his eyes in rhythmic patterns, looking all the world like a mouse caught in a trap, before the officer approached him, gave him a nod. 

"And as for you, Mr. Nobolochev. Apologies for the harsh lighting. We find it conducive to situations....such as these."

"I understand....I hope I am not to forward in asking to be returned to my room? I still have much to recover."

The officer nodded. "Of course." He gave a signal to the guards stationed by the door, who promptly seized Owen's bed and wheeled him back to his room. A few moments later, they left, and Owen breathed a sigh of relief. Jesus, that had been difficult. A moment's slip-up and he would have suffered in Oleg's place.

Once he recovered, Owen thought, all he'd have to do was escape. It would be difficult, for sure, but at this point he'd absorbed, through training and undercover interaction, much of how the Russian military and their secret service operated. It would 'simply' be a matter of recovering without fucking up for the next four or five months, then, he estimated, waiting for another few weeks as he ingratiated himself into the officers' collective good graces. 

And, fortunately enough, an opportunity would present itself sooner than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know he gets outta this whole 'oleg is the spy actually' situation to easily but Whatever Its My Fic I Decide What Happens /j


	3. Falling, In More (Bad) Ways Than One

For the most part, Owen had been right. He managed to survive the next four months, although the extensive identity he'd been given was starting to wear thin under the occasional round of questioning he was subjected to. The next few weeks, perhaps even month, would be difficult, but manageable.

Of course, this changed - he'd rigged the radio to pick up the barely-comprehsensible, static-filled commucation frequency of the russian base, and the next day, amongst all the literal and metaphorical white noise, Owen had managed to glean one bit of key information: the blueprints were _missing_ , either destroyed in the blast or stolen. The reports were largely saying that it was likely the latter. 

That could only mean one thing. Mega had escaped. Owen knew he should've had mixed feelings about this. Curt was alive. He'd survived the blast. That man was his lover, had been for four years, so logically, he should feel something, anything, other than rage, and yet - there it was, accompanied by that pain in his chest again. This had just confirmed what he already knew - that he'd been left to die. Were the plans to some fucking weapons more important to Curt than Owen's life? He hadn't even _tried_ , he -

Footsteps in the hallway immediately struck Owen out of his rage. In the span of about three seconds, he tuned the radio back to whatever propoganda-filled radio station it had been on previously and set it on the table next to his bed. It was a good thing that he'd been so quick, because the moment his hands left the radio a guard poked his head in.

"Morning, Mr. Nobolochev-" the guard frowned, "Is everything alright? You look like you've been crying."

Owen swallowed. He hadn't realized it, but he'd been doing just that. With a nod, he said, "Yes, I turned wrong in the bed."

The guard nodded. "Well, carry on. You may be fit for duty soon," a chuckle, and then, "I hear they are sending a few men away to hunt that American spy. Perhaps you can replace them, eh?" And with that, he'd disappeared from the doorway, his footsteps echoing quieter and quieter down the hall, until there was only silence and Owen's thoughts.

\- - -

The physical therapy was always the most difficult part of surviving a terrible injury, but Owen had been through enough in his years-long career that it this point, it really was no big deal. Most of the problems now came not from re-learning how to walk - ever since he'd regained even the slightest bit of mobility in his legs he'd been doing excercises when nobody was looking. No, the problems now came from the increased Russian presence in his hospital room. It meant the transmissions he picked up over the radio were few and far between.

Today, when the physical therapy officially ended, the first thing Owen did was navigate his way through the facility, to the office of the official he'd spoken with months earlier, the one who'd condemned Oleg to whatever horrible fate the man was probably now suffering.

A quick knock from the guard by the door, and Owen was allowed in, saluting almost immediately.

"Sir!"

The officer looked up from his paperwork, regarded him for a second, and then said, "Good evening, Nobolochev. I must admit, this is a rather unexpected visit."

Owen nodded. "Yes, sir. I came to...make a request of you, if you'll listen.

"I suppose I can make the time."

"I want to hunt the American spy who sabotaged the weapons facility."

The officer's eyebrows raised. He tapped the pen against the desk a few times. "We _already_ have men in search of him."

"Yes - but you do not have men searching for him who _know his face_. Of the facility's staff, only Oleg and I survived. And Oleg - " his face darkened in what he knew was a convincing performance, "Oleg is dead to me." His thoughts of Curt almost made the performance better, but Owen pushed him out of his mind, for now - he couldn't afford to be distracted.

"You raise an interesting point..." the official said, clearly, at the very least, considering the idea, "Very well, Nobolochev. If the others do not return, then I will assign you and a handful of others to the job. Understand that the team will be small. We cannot afford to divert any more men to this."

Owen nodded, and with another salute and a, "Thank you, sir," left the room.

Of course, the other team never returned, either foiled by the A.S.S, or by Curt's well-trained marksmanship, Owen supposed. He'd said it on a whim, but the idea of....not quite hunting Curt, but tracking him down - making him _pay_ \- the idea grew more and more attractive in his mind. He didn't really have any room to be horrified by these thoughts. The fall he'd taken, Owen knew, had changed his mind, about everything. Forever. 

But all that was for another time. When the members of his squad were found, shot dead, at the Russian border, Owen had already escaped, far away, into France. To what end, he didn't know. His future was among the many things he now thought of as uncertain. The only real constant in his life now centered on one thing.

No matter how long it took him, no matter the time or the place, that slag Mega would pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha nooo owen dont descend further into darkness nooo youre so sexyyyy ahaha


End file.
